The Barkeeper
by SeanEmma4Evr
Summary: Everyday for the last three months, Hermione Granger entered The Hog’s Head at precisely ten minutes after eight in the evening. She sipped her drink, stared at her nails, paid, and then left. Tonight, however, was three months and one day. DHr, Oneshot


_**The Barkeeper**_** - Harry Potter**

_Rating_: M (for language)

_Note_: Three years after _Deathly Hallows_

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Everyday for the last three months, Hermione Granger entered The Hog's Head at precisely ten minutes after eight in the evening. She came in like clockwork; walking directly through the front, glancing to her left followed by a glance to her right, and then proceed to her favorite stool, slipping her cloak off in the process.

Most of the people in there would sneer the first time they spotted her, their eyes scanning her up and down, distaste setting in at the sight of her attire. Her clothing didn't vary, always business pieces. Some days she'd be wearing a black skirt with a black blouse while other days she'd be wearing a black dress. On rare days she'd arrive in fitted black trousers and a white blouse. Every garment she arrived in was the epitome of modesty and propriety. Furthermore, she always arrived with her hair pulled back. Sometimes in a high bun on the top of her head or with it braided down the center of her back. Other times she twisted it in an elegant knot at the base of her neck, but never was one hair, one curl, ever out of place.

Hermione didn't speak to the other patrons nor did she ever cause a fuss. Whenever the occasional, routine bar fight broke out, she'd simply glance in the direction as though mulling over whether she needed to move or not, get out of the way, and then return to her glass.

Hermione Granger, more or less, came and went, a ghost of a customer (though she paid and generously tipped).

For three months her routine had gone undisturbed. For three months she sipped her drink for an hour, stared at her neatly-tripped fingernails, paid, and then left, barely a word whispered out of her. For three months she went under the wand, barely anyone really taking notice to the girl who came and went without much thought.

Tonight, however, was three months and one day.

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Hermione arrived at ten minutes after eight, her teeth chattering and body shivering from the cold. The rainy weather had been chilling the air for two weeks straight which caused quite the dilemma for anyone traveling outside late at night. She threw her cloak off, the excess water from the rain splashing on the door behind her, the glass sparkling in the wake. A few regular patrons glanced up, but after realizing it was the quiet one who kept to herself, they returned back to their own drinks and own business.

Brushing a few rain drops from her face, she began walking to her usual spot, the clickity-clack of her heels resounding in the relatively silent bar.

Sitting down, Hermione cast her eyes about, searching for the usual barkeeper. Sure enough he arrived within moments, her regular drink already in his hand.

"Thank you," she murmured, the cool glass causing further discomfort for her icy hands.

This is when Hermione noticed the change from her routine, an alteration from the regularity in her life - the barkeeper continued to stand in front of her, grey eyes practically warming her with the gaze.

"Can I ask you a question?" he asked in a low drawl.

Keeping her eyes locked on her neatly-trimmed nails, Hermione quipped, "You just did."

Ignoring her comment, he asked, "Why do you come here?"

Hermione, suddenly feeling exhausted, this barely started conversation already taking a toll on her, looked up at the barkeeper. She knew the man, not well, but well enough to say she knew him personally. They grew up together, childhood enemies, and now found themselves, two years after their graduation from Hogwarts, three years after the demise of the Dark Lord, staring at one another with only a counter between them.

Clearing her throat, Hermione said, "In all the years that I've known you, I've never heard anything without rancor come out of your mouth. At least towards me. So why are you suddenly asking me questions?"

The barkeeper surprised her when he replied, "You never bothered to ask me about anything during all those years of knowing me. At least anything personal. So why are you suddenly asking me questions instead of just answering?"

Hermione's neatly plucked brows lifted up, her puzzlement filtered across her face. Obviously the barkeeper had caught the girl off guard.

"You know, usually you just give me my drink and—"

"And that's another thing," he interrupted, looking thoughtful, "why come to this type of establishment and order a fuckin' butterbeer?"

"Excuse me, but is it common of most barkeepers to swear at their customers?" asked Hermione, looking shocked.

"Like you said, I'm a barkeeper. We're not at Flourish and Blotts or at a fuckin' ice cream parlor. You're at a bar and...I'm curious about you. So, will you answer my question? Why do you come here?"

"I only answer questions when they're politely asked and only when the questions are relevant," she responded in a curt tone, taking a sip of her non-alcoholic drink as soon as the words left her mouth.

The barkeeper shook his head, resuming his prior activity of wiping down the counter, muttering, "Suit yourself, Granger. I just thought I'd engage in a little conversation with someone who is clearly lonely and unhappy."

Hermione, staring directly at the man who conveniently needed to wipe down the part of the counter three feet away from her, burst out laughing. The barkeeper cocked his head toward her, a slight smile curving up the corner of his mouth. The reaction, any reaction really, finally erupted from the seemingly quiet woman.

"I'm not lonely and unhappy," she told him, laughter still bubbling out from her mouth. The barkeeper believed her too, for she did not speak in defense. She sounded as though she was simply stating facts for all the world to hear.

"You're not?"

Shaking her head, gulping down another sip of her drink, she continued, "I'm not lonely and unhappy. I'm the opposite really. I'm surrounded by people constantly and I'm incredibly happy."

"So then, prey tell, what is someone so sociable and so content doing in a place like this?"

Hermione thought about this for a long while, generously taking two more sips of her butterbeer, before she answered, "Can't enjoyment of the atmosphere be enough for an answer?"

"Again you're responding with a question. I know they say the wisest is not the one with answers, but the one asking questions, but this is pretty ridiculous."

More laughter ensued, from both patron and barkeeper. Even with all the animosity they shared as children, the duo seemed, essentially, to enjoy the others' company.

"Let's break it down then, eh?" he proposed, arching his eyebrows at her.

Smiling mischievously, she said, "I'm listening."

"Alright. You say you're not lonely and that you're surrounded constantly by people—"

"I believe I said I was surrounded by people constantly. You're reversing my words, but continue."

He smirked at her. "Cute. Very cute, smart ass."

"I thought so."

"Moving on," the barkeeper said, emphasizing the 'on' by drawing the word out; "you're surrounded by people constantly and apparently you think being sociable constitutes as not being lonely. Who are you surrounded by?"

"My family. I spend a fair amount of time with my mum and dad whenever I can. I'm their only child and they crave to shower me with attention and affection so I humor them as often as my schedule permits. Furthermore, I do it graciously and without boding much of a fight. Why deny them of something they want when it's so easy to give?"

"You'd be surprised," murmured the barkeeper, his eyes moving back to his towel.

Tilting her head to the side, she asked, "What does that mean?"

"We're not talking about me. We're talking about you so let's keep going. You've got family, but I happen to know that you also have a lot of friends. Good friends?"

"Best of. You know my friends, don't you?" The hint of sarcasm in her tone wasn't lost on the man, but he chose to ignore it, allowing her to continue on. "Harry and Ron are and forever will be my best mates. While you hated us growing up, and I won't deny that the feeling was mutual..."

"Thank you," he acknowledged as he filled up her glass with more butterbeer.

"...Harry and Ron are good people. Not only do I foresee myself growing old with both of them, but I see myself doing more with one in particular."

"Ah, that's right," said the barkeeper with a sly smile, "you and Weasley are together. Is he good?"

"He's amazing. We may have had issues when we were friends, but I think a lot of that had to do with our immaturity and the loving frustration we both felt. He gets me and more than that, he balances me. I'm the smart one, the bookworm, and the work-a-holic who sometimes forgets to take a sip of water for a few days. Ron makes sure I remember to have fun and that I'm only twenty-one."

The blond man nodded, moving to the other side of her and resuming his cleaning activity. He noted gruffly, "That's great, Granger, but I wasn't talking about _that _kind of good."

"Oh, I see. You're wondering how...he is..."

"In the sack, yeah," he finished for her, crudely. He then looked to his left and then his right, in a patronizing manner, lowering his voice, "You can say that kind of shit here. It's kind of like a welcomed type of speak."

"I'll do well to remember that," replied Hermione, rolling her eyes at him. He chuckled to himself as she resumed, "In the sack, as you so eloquently put it, Ron is...well, he isn't lacking in that department."

"I'm sure he's not."

"Excuse me, but is that sarcasm?" asked Hermione, appearing mildly put off.

Shaking his head, the man told her, "You gave the typical good girlfriend response. You didn't give a lot away, but you inferred enough to me so I'd know your boyfriend is just as much of a man as I am."

"Only you don't believe me?"

"No, I do believe you. It's the other ones who give that answer who I don't believe."

Taking another sip of the chilled drink, Hermione asked, "Why me and not them."

"Cause you're not lying," he told her easily; quickly.

Licking her lips, smoothing out her already pressed hair, she questioned, "How do you know I'm not lying?"

Smiling to himself, the barkeeper said, "Cause as a liar, I have the ability of spotting a lie pretty easily. I read liars like you read books, Granger."

Turning her attention back to her neatly-trimmed nails, she said, "Yeah, well, I'm not much of a liar in general."

He lifted his head then, his grey eyes meeting her brown ones.

"There was your first lie."

Frowning at him, she watched him stalk away, refilling another customer's tankard, giving her a second to compose herself. When he returned, she immediately took the opportunity to pounce; "why do you care about whether he's good or not? Are you planning on shagging Ron any time soon?"

Laughing, the barkeeper said, "Don't get your knickers in a knot. I ask that question all the time, about a guy to his girl. It's a guy thing, trust me. Even your beloved Ron does it, just ask him. Though, knowing you, he probably doesn't even know you're here."

"You may be able to read lies, but you can't seem to read me," quipped Hermione, smirking as she took another sip.

Giving her the benefit of the doubt, the barkeeper said, "Alright, so I buy it. Your precious Ron knows you're here, but um..."

"Yes, he knows I'm here. Why would I lie to him?"

"He doesn't care that you're at a pub?" asked Draco in disbelief, "and not just any pub, but the Hog's Head? I can tell you're not lying, but it just seems odd."

"I told you, he gets me. He trusts me and he doesn't feel the need to put a leash on me. He knows I'm capable and if I choose to spend an evening drinking butterbeer, then no, he doesn't mind me coming to the Hog's Head. Does he prefer me to go to The Three Broomsticks, yes, but it doesn't have the type of serenity that I'm vying for. Broomsticks is too loud, filled to the brim with the Rita Skeeters of our world and autograph seekers and other people dying to know about my life. Here, however, I'm free from any harassment from unwanted sources. Unless the barkeeper decides to keep running his mouth, that is."

"Touché," acknowledged the blond man, winking at her.

"I'm actually more surprised at your curiosity over Ron allowing me to come to a place like this," admitted Hermione, downing the rest of her drink.

As he poured her yet another glass, he asked, "Why? What did you think I'd be more curious about?"

"Well, I figured you'd be more...what's the word? _Nosy _about me sleeping with Ron at all. I figured someone like you would tease me for it."

"I'm not five, Granger, but if you want me to make fun of you for fucking the Weasel then I will." The words rolled off his tongue so freely it nearly made Hermione's head spin. Ron didn't speak this way to her. Hell, most of the men she associated with didn't speak this way to her. Gentlemen didn't speak this way.

"I wasn't saying that and do you mind toning down the language a bit?"

Rolling his eyes, he asked, "What would you prefer? Screwing? Shagging? Making love?"

"We indulge in all three, in abundance I might add, but that doesn't mean we go on speaking about it like it doesn't mean something. Is that how you view sex?"

"I view sex as a means to an end. Unlike you, I'm just trying to get by these days. I'm not looking for love right now."

"Finally," said Hermione with a grin, "we're talking about you."

"You're obviously eager to get the topic away from your precious Ronald so why not? Besides, you humored me for a while, though I still plan on coming back to the 'happy' portion of the conversation very soon. So, that being said, what do you want to know?"

"Why are you, Draco Malfoy, the son of a very wealthy man, working at the Hog's Head?"

The question had been burning in Hermione's skull from the moment she laid eyes on him three months ago. She'd seen him, of course, out and about throughout the wizarding world, but never working. The first time she saw him working as a barkeeper, she'd thought he'd lost a bet or something. There had to be some logical explanation for why he'd do something so "beneath" him, at least from the standpoint he had back at Hogwarts. Now she finally asked and she waited impatiently for the answer.

Draco licked his lips, looking down at the shiny counter surrounding his pale hand. He got the question a lot, but before tonight, he had never even considered answering it.

"Malfoy?"

Meeting her eyes, Draco answered, "I have a mark. I have a mark on my wrist which will forever hinder me from having a normal life, if you can believe it. I um...I made mistakes. Several, in fact, and it's cost me. Cost me the privilege of having a normal life."

"You're babbling," noted Hermione; not unkindly, but in an attempt to push him to a more unambiguous response.

Sighing, he continued, "After Potter vanquished the Dark Lord and your side triumphed, my family suffered from the ostracization of the wizarding community. While we made slight amends near the end...it wasn't enough. My family and I were still the enemy, me, in particular, when it became evident of my help in the death of Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione let out a slight hiss, the memory of the late headmaster still fresh in her heart. The man had meant a great deal to her, though she'd never outright admitted it to him.

"I could never work in the Ministry. They'd never allow it and I can't work in the business empire either."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, bewildered by his statement. "The Malfoy name alone would work wonders."

"The Malfoy name, dear girl, is the problem. We're infamous, in each and every field. We're seen as traitors. Do you really think they'd want to work with someone who should by all accounts be in Azkaban?"

"If you were suppose to be in Azkaban you would be," stated Hermione firmly.

Smiling, Draco responded, "Thanks, but you and I both know the truth. Money can solve a lot of problems, and it didn't hurt that Potter stood up for me. Being in his debt...I think I'd rather have taken the rock."

Hermione didn't respond, instead watched as he filled another man's mug with a hard liquor, the odor wafting into her nostrils. Rubbing her palm over the tip of her nose, desperately trying to rid herself of the noxious smell, Hermione turned her attention back to the man, one still rubbing a hole into the counter.

"Anyway, the name Malfoy and business no longer go hand in hand. I couldn't play quidditch since I would have surely died. Getting knocked off my broom each game would no doubt eventually lead to my death. So I got a job here and I rather like it."

"Why work at all?" she asked.

"And what? Stay locked up in my parent's manor all day? Sorry to disappoint you, sweetie, but I didn't exactly enjoy growing up there. It's a frightening place really and to remain there...it would have felt like Azkaban only worse. At least in Azkaban you still have human contact every now and then."

"But—"

"I need to be around people, Granger. Unlike you, who have people vying for your attention at every hour of everyday, barely giving you time to breathe...I'm still trying to make enough social ties to last me. For several years I was in pure isolation. When I was at school and at home...it all sucked."

"Pure isolation?" she questioned, not understanding him correctly.

Frowning, he continued, "I may have been surrounded by people Granger, but none I could call upon as company. Crabbe and Goyle? Those two dolts only knew what they were told, most of which came from their parents. Pansy, though not entirely stupid, only wanted me for one thing: money; hardly someone I could count on as a friend. The other Slytherins...I don't know. They feared me and being someone who constantly has others cowering away from them...is someone leading a very lonely life."

Hermione couldn't explain what she felt for him. She didn't feel sympathy for him. She hadn't forgotten what his family had done to her during her captivity at Malfoy Manor when she'd been eighteen. She couldn't empathize with him. When she truly thought about it, she felt pity for the guy. While she still felt ill about his family, she did pity a man who appeared, at least from her point of view, to be somewhat reformed.

"And the manor?" she asked, after he'd poured drinks for four burly men who'd just entered. One in particular, with a dark goatee, stared a little too long at her though she displayed her cool aloofness as always, never letting on, to the man or to anyone else, she felt uncomfortable.

"My parents loved me, yeah, but...it's complicated. With what they did as their...side jobs—"

"Being death eaters," growled Hermione, meeting him eye for eye.

He had the grace to appear pained, slightly shamed, as he continued, "Yeah. Well, um, let's just say I was sheltered from a lot of things because of it. They spent a fair amount of time working on projects frequently, leaving me alone in that place. Now a days...it's even worse. They're still convinced that Azkaban is a possibility and it's driven them both mad. Hence my preference to stay here during a good portion of the day and most of the night."

"Wow," sighed Hermione, "I never would have thought that. I don't think anyone does. At least nobody I know."

"Malfoys are good at keeping secrets when we want to," he told her, his grin back.

"It's readily becoming apparent," she murmured, finishing off the last of her drink. She looked at him, her eyes demanding him to pour her another one.

"Don't you think you've had enough? Fuck, Granger, this will be your fourth one and I can only imagine how many trips you'll be making to the loo tonight as it is. Don't you think your Ronnie will mind?"

"Don't call him Ronnie," she hissed, "and no, I'm sure he won't. He's a heavy sleeper and I rarely get out of bed anyway so the few times I have taught me how to do it with stealth. I've got a large bladder so fill it up, you git."

"Now you're sounding like you belong here!"

She shot him a dashing smile as he filled up her butterbeer mug, shaking his head and muttering something sounding suspiciously like 'non-alcoholic' under his breath.

After she drank nearly half of it down, he asked, "So let's get back to the whole happy deal."

"All right," she agreed.

"You say you're happy, but then why are you spending evenings here looking so...pinched?"

"I am NOT pinched!"

Laughing, he threw his hands up in passive gesture; akin to 'I meant no harm' or 'take it easy' in order to placate her.

"Okay, Miss Not-Pinched, I apologize. I only meant you seem...well, can I be frank or will you curse me?"

"Depends on how frank you are," she told him honestly, taking her wand from her back pocket and twirling it around her fingers like a baton.

Cracking a smile, Draco said, "You look like you belong in a bloody bubble! Why do you show up in those ridiculous clothes?"

"They're not ridiculous," she countered, "but merely what I wear to work. I come here after I get off and at the Ministry they prefer us to wear garments fitting of the formal atmosphere. I can't just show up in ruddy muggle jeans and a T-shirt."

"Why not? I happen to think muggle jeans look good on women. Tends to show off their nice, round arse."

"Oh, what a pretty picture, Malfoy. You always were the crude bastard," she teased, taking another dainty sip of her large mug.

Rolling his eyes, he continued wiping down the counter, refilling a few more drinks of the other diners he normally wouldn't have ignored. Draco Malfoy definitely took his job seriously, but leave it to Granger to ruin his concentration and regular routine. After the other customers were satisfied, Draco stood himself in front of Hermione, who happened to be pondering.

"Sickle for your thoughts."

Shaking her head, she told him, "I'm just thinking about what you said. About the way I look. I mean...is it bad that I show up like this?"

"Showing up in clothes in itself should be a crime I say, at least for a woman with curves like yours, but in general, no, it's not wrong. I just think it's wrong for you to show up in a bloody pub still wearing them. Merlin, Granger, you look a pompous git. Haven't you considered ever changing before showing up? Do you even own a pair of those jeans you insulted so easily?"

"I do own jeans," she shouted back, sounding defensive, "but I just...I wear them at home, at more appropriate times. I don't want men here to get, you know, the wrong impression."

"The wrong impression? Showing up in the first place gives off the wrong impression," he quipped, sounding amused at her comment. Hermione, however, didn't find his remark all too funny. He noticed and renewed, "Don't worry, Granger, you certainly give off a sense of respectability. I mean, you're drinking a non-alcoholic drink in a place like this. You know what that means right?"

Shaking her head, she asked, "No, what?"

Bringing a few used glasses from the sink and placing them on a towel for manual cleaning, he told her, "You're either an auror or working for the Dark Arts. You're Hermione-bloody-Granger, best friend of Golden Boy Potter, so I think the latter is not a possibility."

"But I'm not an auror."

"Yes, but most of the regulars here don't even know their own birthday. Do you really think they keep tabs on what you do at the ministry?"

Quirking her eyebrows and sighing, she admitted, "I suppose you're right."

"'Course I am. When am I not right?"

She laughed openly, taking a few more sips of her drink, the coldness of her mug brushing against the ridges of her fingertips.

"I guess I could try coming in wearing less formal clothes. I guess I could make an effort to dress up for this sort of thing. Or, in better terms, dress down."

Winking her way, Draco chuckled to himself, finding the conversation more appealing than any other he'd had over the course of a night.

However, their chat underwent a change when the same burly man with a dark goatee sat himself down beside Hermione, smelling of stale firewhiskey and too much cheap cologne. Hermione didn't respond to the intrusion, keeping her focus on her glass and Draco. Yet the discomfort remained, and increased as the man nudged the bottom of Hermione's shoe.

"Aren' you that Potter lass?" he asked, slurring his words together.

Smiling awkwardly, she replied, "I'm a friend of Harry Potter, yes. Can I help you with something?"

Draco noted the diplomacy in her tone and word usage, but kept himself from laughing. After working in a pub for so long he generally could determine when bad things were about to occur. He could sense it now.

The drunken man flashed her a toothy grin, exclaiming, "Purty lass like you should be sittin' with me and me friends over there." He pointed to a far table where the other three other men were seated, two of which were licking their lips seductively (and pathetically) at her.

Inwardly scowling, Hermione turned away, her eyes returning to her defrosting cup. "Sorry to disappoint you and the other gentlemen, but I'm in the midst of having a nice talk with the barkeeper, an old friend of mine, and I would really like to get back to it. I'm sure you understand."

The man didn't understand. In fact, he took offense to Hermione's response, mistaking her subtle sarcasm as a flagrant disregard to his "lovely" flirting technique.

"Hold up, you...you little wench. 'Ow dare you...in-in-ins...'ow dare you be rude to me like tha'. I'll 'ave you know I'm a well-known man, meself. I don't like yer attitude."

Blind-sided by his sudden change in demeanor (_though I should have expected it!_ she chided herself), she found herself hauled off of her stool and yanked by her arm, pulled tightly to the man's smelly chest. Pushing back and growling in frustration and anger, Hermione reached back for her wand.

"Take your hands off me!"

"We gotta fighter 'ere," he ground out, chuckling to himself.

"_Let the lady go."_

Hermione turned to meet the face of her rescuer, the man with a deadly voice. She was surprised to see Draco there, standing tall, wand outstretched and aimed squarely at the man holding her captive. Though her attacker had about seventy pounds on the slim Malfoy, Draco, being sober and armed, easily could take him. Hermione relaxed, no longer worried and her anger lessening...then something else caught her attention. Staring back and forth between the object and Draco, Hermione thought of another pressing question she needed answered.

"I swear I will curse you into next week," he growled, hostility practically bursting from his pores, "and, furthermore, I'll ban you from the pub. I doubt your friends would like that."

A look of incredulity and appalling horror crept over his face. Even in his drunken state, the man clearly knew when a challenge had beaten him. He couldn't risk getting kicked out of the Hog's Head permanently, not over some silly bint in the pub who looks far too prim and proper to be there in the first place. No, it wouldn't do to lose his sanctuary.

He released Hermione, glowering at her for a brief moment before sulking back to his friends, all eyes following him.

"Get back to your drinks. Show is over," sneered Draco, turning his back on the other patrons and stalking back behind the counter, returning to his spot in front of Hermione.

Silence remained between them as the other people began to chatter again, the soft noise increasing to a mild clamor.

"Thanks," she whispered, trying to break the tension.

"Just doing my job."

"I've never seen you break up fights like that bef—"

"Don't buy into everything, Granger."

Hermione didn't like how the simple ease they'd shared for the night evaporated, a trail of unease and discomfiture remaining.

"Thanks all the same," she murmured, downing the last of her drink. Draco nodded and poured her another, his eyes not meeting hers.

The silence lasted for several more minutes until he sighed heavily and slammed a glass down with much more force than necessary; "I know you know so you might as well say it. Damn you for being so bloody smart."

"It's just...that's not a wand. Not a real one anyway. Pretty good fake, but still...I know the difference."

Draco didn't acknowledge her words, per se, but merely shrugged, continuing to clean the already clean glasses. Hermione knew he did more than this regularly, even spending a fair amount of time delivering drinks rather than having everyone approach him, but tonight had been different. Hermione couldn't believe one night had introduced her to the real Draco Malfoy.

"Did they take your magic?"

"It's more complicated than that," he told her curtly, still not meeting her eyes.

"I've got time. I mean...I still have this drink to finish and—"

"And you're going to nag me and pry until you get an answer, aren't you Granger?" Only then did he meet her gaze, staring at her head on. "Some things will never change."

"Apparently not," she returned, interested and only mildly apologetic for being that way.

She saw his resolve crumble, his defenses weakening, and—"My penance for...choosing the wrong side and following my parent's footsteps...cost me my magic anywhere outside of my house."

"Huh? I've never heard of this punishment."

"Yeah, well you wouldn't have. It was kept under wraps in the ministry for fear of what would happen to me if the information was leaked. Wizards and witches alike would have clamoured to have my head if they knew I'm completely and utterly defenseless in public. Pathetic really, at least for me. I'm a squib in public and it...it sucks. Bloody sucks and I can't do a thing about it. At home, at least I can do magic, do whatever spells I need to, but here..."

"You're without a wand," she whispered, to herself as much as to him.

"Exactly. So I had this made and I bluff with it whenever I have to. I rarely do it for obvious reasons, but...I felt I needed to just now."

Hermione didn't know what to feel. She'd existed in a life without magic for eleven years, learned to live without the help and aid of a wand. Draco, however, had been born and raised with magic, never knowing or even fathoming a life without it. For him, there must have been no greater blow. This time she felt compassion for him. Compassion and sadness.

"I know what you are thinking Granger and stop it. Don't feel sorry for me. I made my bed and now I'm sleeping in it. Mind you I made a big ass bed completed with fuckin' sheets of steel, but I made it all the same. It's my fault, I've come to realize, and so I'm taking my punishment in stride."

"Do you ever...do you ever wish you took Azkaban?" she asked in a low voice.

"Sometimes. Sometimes I wish I had the balls to face that place and live the rest of my days alone, but...I'm not a Gryffindor for a reason. I never claimed to have courage."

A bizarre twist in a twisted tale. Now she truly felt knocked for six, having never in her life expected to hear such a thing from ANY Slytherin, least of all the one who fit every cliche and stereotype. Bizarre, indeed.

"You made the right decisions and I...I envy you. I'd tell you to never utter that to another living soul, but why bother? Nobody would believe you anyway."

At this they laughed together, her spilling a few sprinkles of butterbeer onto the counter.

"Oi! All my hard work has gone to waste due to your clumsiness. Merlin, Granger, can't you be a bit more careful?"

"My apologies, Mister Malfoy. I had no idea you were so fond of this counter. I'd say it's clean enough to eat off of."

"Correction, it _was_ clean enough to eat off of before your mess. But yes, I keep it rather clean I must say. Perhaps I'll nip some girl off the street and do her right here after I close down shop." He lifted his eyes brows suggestively, dual blushes creeping on her cheeks and neck. The barkeeper's vast quantity of inappropriate jokes didn't cease to amaze her.

"So," she began again, once his laughter faded away, his smile remaining, "are you happy? Can you be happy?"

She expected the smile to vanish in an instant, to diminish as her words sunk in, but it didn't. If anything his smile widened as he answered, "I'm a day by day kind of guy. Ask me again tomorrow."

Accepting his response, knowing it was the best she'd get out of him, Hermione took the last gulps of her fifth butterbeer and placed the glass back down, pushing it toward him. He went to refill it, but she held up a hand as she picked up her purse. After rummaging around, locating her coin pouch, she dropped several galleons on the counter.

"This is far too much. I'm not one to accept—"

"It's for the drinks and the conversation. I never imagined having a chat with an old schoolmate would bring about my epiphany."

"Epiphany?" he questioned, staring at her with a bemused expression.

Smiling to herself and staring up toward the Heavens, she told him, "Ron asked me to marry him three months ago. He asked me to marry him the day I started coming here. I didn't give him a response, I couldn't. I didn't..." she broke off, collecting herself and choosing her words carefully. Clearing her throat, she continued, "He was gracious and told me to take all the time I needed. I know he has been bothered by it, obviously put off I've made him wait this long, but he refuses to push it. He knows me well enough to know I'll come to him with an answer in my own time. It's the way I am, similar to how you are."

"So this is about common interests," he commented, giving her a sly smirk.

"This is about me finally realizing what I have to do. What I want. I can give him an answer to his proposal."

"And how exactly did I influence this decision?" he asked inquiringly.

"Malfoy, you made me realize today that I'm all work and no play. You see me as unhappy when I come in here, unhappy and lonely, because I practically am. I'm a good liar, after all, and even to a veteran liar decipher. I'm Hermione Granger in here, the overworked bossy bitch of the Ministry who needs to come in for a pseudo-drink after work. I'm not myself right now. I'm only myself when I'm with Ron. He makes me want to have fun, be the girl I was at Hogwarts."

"An annoying little know-it-all? I'm quite sure that your title is with you no matter where you go. You said it yourself."

Giving him a rude hand gesture, making him laugh, she proceeded, "You know what I mean. The barkeeper knows all about the regulars, yeah?"

"Yes, he does, though this particular barkeeper knows all about everything."

"Forever the snarky little bastard. You'll never change. At least, not in the good ways."

His eyes narrowed, "Don't get me wrong, I know that's precisely what I am, but since when is being a snarky little bastard a good thing?"

"Since you're not using it for evil," she said as she stood up, draping her cloak back over herself.

Smiling - not smirking - he nodded, putting her glass into the sink behind him. Smirking - not smiling - he told her, "Just don't let it get out. I certainly don't want some ghastly rumor spreading about me promoting the evolution of more Weasleys. Dear Merlin, that's the last thing this world needs."

"Scalawag."

"I wouldn't be a Malfoy if I wasn't one."

Peering over her shoulder, she bid farewell, "Goodnight, Mister Malfoy. Your service was impeccable tonight."

"Miss Granger, my service is impeccable every night. I'll see you tomorrow."

Laughing as she watched him return to his duties, she walked out of the pub, the cold air no longer chilling her.

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Hermione arrived at ten minutes after eight, her long hair brushing the soft material of her pale pink sweater. The bottom of her muggle jeans brushed the dirty floor she walked upon, the flats of her favorite holiday boots squeaking on the wood. She glanced to her left before examining her right, her eyes moving quickly over the setting.

In her hand she held another, tugging the arm it belonged to toward the counter in the front. Walking beyond the wandering eyes, ignoring the perplexed stares from other regulars, Hermione sat herself down on her favorite stool, after she pulled out the one beside it.

Draco walked over to his favorite customer, only mildly surprised to see another person beside her.

"Weasley," he greeted, tipping his head slightly.

"Malfoy," he responded back, his tone affable.

Draco turned his attention toward her, nodding in the same terse manner; "Miss Granger. The usual?"

Smiling at the man who held her hand, engagement ring flashing from her ring finger, she shook her head, answering, "I'll take a butterbeer...with lime."

He grinned as she faced him, the mischievous gleam in her eyes nearly maddening. "Happy, Malfoy?"

The barkeeper didn't miss her pun, but merely responded, "Well done, Miss Granger. Well done."

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The End

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_Another oneshot to help me deal with my writer's block - I think it came out rather well. One of my favorite stories, of my own, that is. I hope you all enjoyed it - a bit different than anything else I've done. I also have just written 'To Bite My Tongue' - check it out if you get the chance :)_

_Thanks for reading!_

The Barkeeper_ is the work of fanfiction. The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, but the featured story is mine._


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